Free The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers by Lilian Jackson Braun

it.”
    He referred to a humorous verse Qwilleran had composed for his last birthday. He brought a card from his vest pocket printed with a typical Qwilleran limerick:
    An editor known as Kip
    Is said to run a tight ship.
    His heart is large,
    He’s always in charge,
    But he won’t take any lip.
    The editor said, “Whenever I’m feeling below normal, physically or otherwise, I read your prescription and it gives me a boost.”
    Qwilleran said, “I’ve been thinking of writing a book on the subject of humorous verse—”
    â€œDo it! I’ll buy the first copies and give them to all my friends.”
    As they talked, Qwilleran’s gaze was prone to wander across the room to a table where three women were lunching in unusual hats.
    He remarked, “Polly would go for those bizarre hats, and she could wear one well.”
    The editor corrected him. “Moira says they’re called art hats.”
    â€œI beg everyone’s pardon” was the facetious apology. “Do you know the women who’re wearing them? They keep looking over here at us.”
    â€œThey’re looking at your moustache. They all know who you are. They see your photo in the Qwill Pen on Tuesdays and Fridays…. I still think you should syndicate it to the Ledger. ”
    â€œPleasant thought, but it wouldn’t work.” He grabbed the check when it came to the table. “My treat. Tell Moira she can invite us to dinner when Polly gets back.”
    The editor left, and Qwilleran signed the check and left a tip, noting that two art hats had left the room, and the other woman was still eyeing his moustache.
    On the way out of the restaurant he said to the hostess, “I’m embarrassed. I know that woman at the fireplace table, but I can’t place her.”
    The hostess’s face brightened. “There are usually three. The public library is closed on Thursday, and they call themselves the Librarians Who Lunch. That one is Vivian Hartman, the chief librarian.”
    She looked very pleasant when he approached. Her hat, he noted, was brimmed and about a foot in diameter…two shades of velvet, and a large silk sash with a realistic peony.
    â€œI beg your pardon, are you Miss Hartman? I’m Jim Qwilleran from the Moose County Something .”
    â€œYes, I know! Won’t you sit down?” she answered, and he pulled up a chair.
    â€œI must say I admire the hats you ladies wear.”
    â€œWe make them ourselves…in memory of your Thelma Thackeray. Her brother Thurston had a veterinary hospital here. We’re still grieving over both of them. Not to mention her loss of twenty-five art hats.” She looked for his reaction.
    He nodded somberly. “Did you know that they had been photographed just before the calamity?”
    â€œNo!” she exclaimed. “No one in Lockmaster knew!”
    â€œOur photographer was commissioned, and I went along to hold his lights. I could show you a set of glossy prints—if you would come for lunch at my barn next Thursday,” he said. “Thelma had commissioned a California woman to write a book, but she lost interest when the hats were destroyed…. Perhaps…”
    â€œYes…perhaps,” the librarian said, “we might revive the idea.”

TEN
    As F Day approached, Polly became more distracted. There was no time for dining at fine restaurants followed by a classical concert on the magnificent music system of Qwilleran’s barn. She spent her days instructing Judd and Peggy to take over the Pirate’s Chest in her absence. She spent her evenings making packing lists, reading about Paris, brushing up on her college French, having long telephone conversations with Shirley Bestover; Qwilleran felt left out. His offers of “any kind of assistance” were appreciated but apparently unneeded.
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    That evening and in those to come, Qwilleran took the initiative to phone at